Tension Point
by GraphiteHeron
Summary: Only so much tension can be applied to any string before it snaps. The same holds true for people. Alex Cabot and George Huang try to keep one another away from that vital tension point while also hunting down an elusive child molester and rapist.
1. Applying Pressure

Tension Point

Author's Note: So Heron got hit by related plot bunnies, and they won't let her alone about her L&O SVU ideas. Between sleep deprivation and bingeing on L&O too much lately, well, the ideas are hitting hard and fast. She hopes you don't mind, especially if you are a fan of her anime works and are wondering when she's going to update those. And if you're just someone who likes L&O SVU works, and you don't like the pairing of George Huang and Alex Cabot, well, that's what the back button is for. As always, Heron loves you all (well, not all, but she certainly is fond of many other fictions writers…you know, it's kind of a fellowship, a sense of camaraderie.), and loves reviews, even polite flames, because they tell her what she is doing right and what she is doing wrong. But enough blabber. On with the insanity!

Some people punched walls, others broke mirrors, and still others went to see shrinks to deal with their problems. The problem was, George Huang _was_ the shrink. He had no one to really turn to. And it wasn't as if he would turn to someone for help anyway. It was his job to take on the burdens of others, not the other way around, and he was FBI, which meant he wasn't supposed to let anyone know that he knew how to feel. While Detective Stabler felt perfectly justified in putting his fist into a wall to express his opinion of child molesters and subscribers of kid porn, Huang stood by calmly, gently advising Elliot as to something that would yield better results than hitting a wall would.

Once, maybe twice, his friends and colleagues at SVU had heard him voice frustration out loud, but never at a shout. It was always a soft-spoken exclamation of consternation, and the emotional fits were over almost as soon as they began. Then he was back to being the Huang everyone knew and needed, the one that could pick apart someone's entire psyche in the space of a minute from the other side of the double-sided mirror that made up one wall of every interview room, the one that could coolly and quickly pick up on the personalities and disorders therein of the people he was told to analyze. He fit into whatever mold was needed. He could be a caring friend for the children he had to talk to, a sympathetic shoulder for rape victims to cry on, a skeptic for the narcissists to convince of their skills…the list went on, and never once would he let on that he felt sick when talking to, or even just listening to the criminals that came his way, and the victims. The victims recounted horrors that he wished he'd never heard about, but he was always professional, collected, and calm. No one would ever guess how much he wanted to sprint for the nearest bathroom to unload the contents of his stomach.

Sometimes getting into peoples' heads meant visiting a very ugly, nasty place.

The only other person he'd never head voice a serious complaint was Alex Cabot. He admired her ability to stand strong even after some perpetrator's defense attorney convinced a jury to vote not guilty after tearing her into metaphorical shreds. He wondered how she dealt with it. He'd never seen her go drinking with the detectives, as far as he'd observed she had no one to talk to outside of work… To be subjected to as much daily stress as she was and to deal with it without an outlet, well, now, that was true strength.

It was Thursday. The past two weeks had been spent rounding up child molesters on the internet, and some of the content that Huang had been forced to sift through for a profile had actually made him physically ill, though he'd never let anyone else know that. The office clocks all read eight o'clock, and seeing as they were all three hours slow on the dot, it had to be eleven at night. The detectives were all gone, home, to their families, pets, plants, or just the shadows on their walls, depending on which detective one was referring to. The janitors had come and gone. The only other person still at their desk was Alex.

"Working late?" he asked softly as he leaned in her doorway. She spooked, not having heard him approach, as engrossed as she was staring straight through her paperwork.

"Uh, yeah. Trying to find loopholes in White's defense," she replied as she forced her breathing to slow to a normal pace. "You?"

"Profiling, as usual," he answered listlessly. "But I realized it was getting late, so I thought I'd head out. You want to come with me? Maybe we could find somewhere that sells food at this hour."

Alex smiled wanly, as though it was an expression her face had nearly forgotten. "That sounds nice, if you don't mind listening to a lawyer complain about the courtroom."

"I wouldn't mind at all," he told her honestly. He needed someone to talk to, and, he suspected, so did she. Add to that the fact that neither of them had found time to eat that day, and going for a meal to unload was a mutually beneficial endeavor.

There was a small diner that didn't close until holidays came, one of those twenty-four/seven places that fed mostly working class people, including people who worked nocturnal shifts. The food wasn't half bad either, if one didn't mind heartburn. But for George Huang and Alex Cabot, heartburn wasn't an issue. Their current case had already stirred up some nasty acid reflux.

"Adam White is going to get away with this," Alex moped as they waited for their food to show up. They had taken a table with a very good view out the window of the city lights. "His lawyer has an excuse for every bit of evidence the team was able to dredge up."

"Then go after him as a person. Challenge him, make it seem like covering his tracks like he did was too advanced for someone of his intellect," George replied, tracing a figure eight on the tabletop with an index finger. "He's a self-righteous bastard, he'll rise to it and you'll have enough rope to hang him with when his ego overrides his common sense."

Alex brightened. "I like your thinking. I'll give him a shovel and let him bury himself, that is, if his lawyer doesn't take the shovel from me first. Cynthia Morrison may be new, but she's really, really good. It's almost hard to tell how much she despises having to defend Adam White."

"I don't think anyone wants to see Adam White go free except for Adam White himself," George reasoned. "Even Detective Munch nearly blew up at this guy, and I thought Elliot was going to have a heart attack from prolonged elevated blood pressure."

"He's not the only one," Alex remarked bitterly. The conversation paused as the waitress plunked their meals in front of them with a tired smile, and then left. "People assume that because I'm not a mother that I don't know what it's like… I tried reasoning with Elliot yesterday. He told me to wait until I was a parent, and then see how I felt then. What he doesn't understand is that I don't need to be a parent to hate pedophiles, but I am going to stick by the law no matter how many flaws I think are in the system."

"And that's where your opinions differ. Everyone's got their sensitive topic, I suppose. Olivia is touchy about rapes, Elliot's fuse shortens when he's dealing with pedophiles…"

"What about you, George?" Alex broke in. At first, George wasn't sure whom she was talking to, but then he remembered his own first name. Everyone called him 'Huang' or 'Dr. Huang' so often that he hardly ever responded to hearing his first name spoken aloud. "What cases cut you to the bone?"

"All of them," he responded quietly. "Every case that comes to Sex Crimes makes me feel sick, and angry, and resentful, but I try not to let my emotions spill into my work. My job is to provide profiles and occasionally make victims open up, or perpetrators confess. Blowing up doesn't help me, or the victims and their families, or the detectives."

Alex swallowed the mouthful of the house special that she'd been chewing thoughtfully on as she listened. "That's a very mature train of thought. I shouldn't be surprised, but since I work with people prone to temper tantrums, an outlook like that is a welcome relief. At least I'm not the only one who wants to throw a tantrum but doesn't. Don't get me wrong, I like Elliot a lot, but he takes things too personally and reacts too strongly." Another mouthful of food, and another thoughtful look as their conversation slipped into companionable silence. Then Alex broke the silence suddenly. "You ever feel like all you want to do is break down and cry into your pillow? Make the world go away for a few hours?"

"Yes," George answered. His sentiments exactly, actually. Two weeks he'd spent immersed in the world where children were exploited and abused, two weeks he'd spent watching sick perverts solicit _kids_ for sexual excitement, and this was after he'd had to interview the victim of what was quite possibly the most brutal rape he'd ever seen that had a living victim. "But the world doesn't stop being ugly just because we want it to. The best we can do is put away the people who make the world ugly, and hope that one day it might be enough."

They finished the rest of their meal in silence, split the bill, and then left the diner. Alex stuck her keys into the ignition of her car, but she didn't turn them. George didn't question, merely settling himself more comfortably in the passenger seat. He watched the maelstrom of emotions cross Alex's face, recognizing them as emotions that were tearing him apart as well, though he was a bit better at hiding it. He could feel that tension point now, almost as if it were a physical barrier. It wouldn't take much of a push for either of them before they snapped.

Finally, Alex started the car and pulled out of the diner's parking lot, though instead of driving to any residential area, she drove to a park.

"I'm not getting any sleep tonight, and I doubt you are either," was her explanation. "So, I thought maybe some fresh air would do us both a little good."

"Sounds like a plan," George murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing out of the car. The park was peaceful, deserted. The air was cold, and oddly clean for a park in the middle of a city. It was a place where someone could pretend that people like Adam White didn't exist, where someone could pretend that the world really was a beautiful place, and evil wasn't real. George seized the opportunity to at least temporarily lift the stains from his soul.

They walked together for a while, relishing the tranquility of the park and the distance it provided between them and all the Adam Whites of the world. But then a bench provided a welcome place to sit, especially for Alex, whose shoes were made for the courtroom and not for walking.

Sitting down, the height difference between them wasn't quite so apparent. George Huang was not a tall man, but Alex Cabot was a tall woman, even when she wasn't wearing her standard high heels. Sitting down, though, they were nearly the same height.

"Thanks," Alex said in a near-whisper, letting her head come to rest on George's shoulder. "Thanks for listening to me, giving me a few ideas on how to win the case, and for being here to talk to."

A corner of George's mouth twitched up into a half-smile. "I could say the same to you."

"But you won't. Wouldn't want to ruin the moment, right?"

He chuckled wryly at her humor. He also counted himself lucky that he had never had the ill fortune to be on the wrong side of her acid sarcasm. When someone provoked Alex into exercising that caustic wit, they were asking for a world of pain. She'd actually made grown men cry before, though they had been asking for it, point blank.

They must have spent three or four hours just chatting, trying to temporarily forget about all the ugliness they were going to face when they went back to work later that morning. They poked innocent fun at some of John Munch's conspiracy theories, talked about the weather, even sports teams for a while. But their peaceful little bubble couldn't last for long.

"We should at least try to get a little sleep," George suggested, yawning. "It's going to be a long day tomorrow, later today, you know…"

"Yeah," agreed Alex. They headed back to her car, and talk was rare for most of the drive, except when George gave the occasional directions to his apartment complex so that Alex could drop him off there. Alex finally pulled into the parking lot, after navigating several confusing intersections. "See you at work later," she said, leaning across to give George a quick kiss on the cheek before he got out of the car.

"Drive safely," he told her, and then he vanished into the shadows of his home building.

His electronic alarm clock told him he had enough time to shower and change before going back to work. Then he'd spend more time trying to profile people so that the detectives could learn what they needed to know about what and who they were dealing with. In the mean time, standing under a stream of hot water sounded like a very comfortable idea.

Or maybe that shower would be a cold one, as it wouldn't do to go into work, distracted by thoughts of just how Alex's lips had felt pressed to his cheek.

Maybe the world wasn't such a bad place after all.

Author's Other Note: Hope you enjoyed the angst and the fluff alike, dear readers. Now, it's your decision. Does this remain a one-shot, or does Heron add more chapters? It all depends on whether or not you want to read more of this. Honestly, heron has no opinion either way on this one, as it is the product of an insomniac relieving her boredom, so, if you want to read more, say so, and Heron will write more. Or, if you don't want to read more, say that too and Heron will mark this as a complete one-shot.

**Heron loves her reviewers either way. Later! .**


	2. Snapping that String

**Tension Point**

**II**

**Author's Note: Well, reviewer Odakota (a very nice reviewer by the way. Made Heron's feathers ruffle in sheer ecstasy reading those wonderfully kind reviews) suggested that Heron make this a chaptered work, and, Heron is more than willing to comply. So, she hopes you enjoy reading more of this George/Alex fiction, as she is enjoying writing it. Since the last chapter was primarily in George Huang's POV, maybe Heron will write this chapter from Alex Cabot's POV. Well, we'll just see where inspiration goes, eh?**

**By the way, Odakota, thank you so much for your reviews. They give new definition to the 'warm fuzzies'!**

There were a lot of jokes about lawyers out there, most if not all of them portraying lawyers as heartless, sharks, focused only on winning and not on the feelings or cares of the people around them. Problem was, Alex Cabot didn't fit the stereotype. The Adam White case was hitting her hard, and deeply. It was sucking dry her reserve of emotional strength, but she wasn't allowed to let on that prosecuting the pedophile was making her sick.

Every case that came her way made her sick, because even if she won the argument in court, did that bring back the murder victims? Did it undo the rapes? Did it make everything okay, like the trauma had never happened, and did it un-ruin lives? No, no, no, it didn't. Even when she won, she lost, because it was her job to make everything right, and making everything right was beyond her capabilities.

It was Friday, and she'd just been taken off the case for medical leave. Adam White hadn't liked it when she'd attacked his personality and intelligence in the courtroom, trying to get him to blow a hole in his own story, and he'd body-checked her in the corridor, which had sent her toppling into a marble bench before she hit the floor. She had a concussion, a split lip, and several other various bruises she didn't care to name, so her second-chair had taken over the rest of the case for the day.

George Huang had sat with her in the corridor as they waited for the jury verdict. He'd even held an ice-pack to the sore lump on her head and helped her dab the blood from her lip with a paper towel procured from one of the restrooms.

He held her hand when Adam White was declared not guilty, and walked out of the courtroom a free man.

"Alex, I'm so sorry," George told her as a smirking Adam White sneered at them on his way out. "I didn't know my advice would make him react like this, and, I'm sorry you lost the case. If you need anything…"

"George, it's just a bump on the head. I'll be fine, really," she assured him, standing from the bench and taking control of the cold pack. "I'll just go home for now, and then we'll see about re-trying White later, with stronger evidence." He looked about to protest, but she waved him off and walked out to her car, the only sound following her being the tired click of her two-inch heels and the gentle swish of her nylon leggings.

Some would say that it's purely a woman's cure-all, chocolate ice cream and soap opera re-runs before a silly movie while wearing one's oldest and most well-worn pajamas, but if so many women used this method, it had to have some effectiveness. Actually, there was scientific basis in the correlations between stressed women and chocolate sales. Chocolate stimulates the part of the woman's brain that is also stimulated by sex – the pleasure part – so, in short, and not to be crude, but it's a little pick-me-up without the trouble of having a man around.

And it was working just fine for Alex Cabot, until the window by her fire escape was broken and entered. Hearing the noise, she set her ice cream on the end table by her couch and made to leave – she wasn't about to play hero if there was a burglar in her apartment – but she never got the chance to get to the door. Strong arms pinned her to her living room wall, and hot breath whooshed by her ear as her assailant leaned in to talk to her.

"Hi honey, miss me?"

She knew that voice, that poisoned honey wine and red velvet voice. A voice that could send shivers up a woman's spine if she didn't know him, and could send shivers up a woman's spine if she did, though the shivers being good or bad depended on the given situation. In this case, it was a bad thing. A very bad thing.

That voice belonged to Adam White.

"Aren't I a little old for your tastes?" Alex spat, resigned to the fate that probably awaited her. She was being attacked by a rapist. He was probably going to rape her, but that didn't mean she had to be happy about it.

And she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she was afraid. She was terrified. She knew White was going to hurt her, most likely going to sexually assault her, and possibly going to kill her. She wasn't ready to die, nowhere near so, but unless he changed their positions, fighting wasn't possible.

"Well, we've already established that I like my girls a bit younger than you, but you, Bitch, are going to pay for what you said in that courtroom," he snarled, pressing her harder against the wall before throwing her to the floor and aiming numerous kicks at her abdomen and head. Alex, for the most part, tried to lessen the impact by curling around Adam's foot when it came her way, but the pain was still overwhelming.

Was this how all those little girls felt? Or was he nicer to them because they hadn't pissed him off? Was this how Olivia Benson's mother felt?

Dimly Alex was aware of her phone ringing, of her answering machine picking up and George's voice asking her to please answer her phone and was she alright? Most of her awareness, though, was focused on the pain, and the fact that Adam White had just torn off her sweats and was doing to her what she had prosecuted so many rapists for doing to other women. That didn't matter at the moment though. All she could keep her focus on was the pain.

She was barely conscious as Adam finished, getting off of her, giving her one last cursory kick and spitting one last insult at her before he left the way he came. Then there was the kind of silence that drowned out even the comedic movie she had playing on her television. The calm after the storm. Even the pain seemed a bit less intense.

Alex lay there for what seemed like hours, unsure of much and with no way of telling time. After a while there was a politely gentle knock at her door. When she was incapable of answering, the knocking became more insistent, worried even. It was probably George, thinking that maybe her light concussion had caused her to black out or something.

The door opened with a slam, as though someone on the other side hadn't realized it wasn't locked when they forced it open. Hurried footsteps frantically shuffled her way, and someone was calling her name. It actually was George, though what he had initially thought had happened to her probably wasn't as bad as what had actually happened. Either way, she was glad to see him. She was in too much pain to get herself up off the floor to go to the phone and call for help.

"Alex! Alex, how badly are you hurt?" A significantly more intelligent question than 'are you alright?', most definitely.

"Pretty bad," she finally managed to moan. George was already pouncing on her cordless phone and punching in 911.

"Yes I'm sure that's the address, now could you please send out a crime scene unit and an ambulance?" George snapped at the harried call-taker on the other end of the line. "There's been an assault, and possibly a rape. My friend needs medical attention, now!" The calm, cool, collected forensic psychiatrist was gone, at least temporarily replaced with the panicking friend who had just discovered a loved one in a bad situation.

George answered all the questions he could when the police arrived, police that included Olivia and Elliot, and then rode with Alex when the ambulance arrived, which she was more than a little grateful for.

"Did you see who attacked you?" Olivia asked, as she was also riding along, though this time as the SVU officer and not as a friend. Alex nodded, mouthing one word in reply: 'White'.

George felt more than a little guilty as he held Alex's hand, thinking that maybe it was his fault she'd been attacked. After all, he had been the one to suggest attacking White's character in court; he might not have gotten angry enough to come after Alex otherwise. George had predicted that Adam White would immediately respond to implications that he wasn't smart enough or man enough to cover his tracks or commit his crimes the way he had. After all, men of White's personality disorder type couldn't help but correct what they considered to be misconceptions about their skills. Apparently, White knew about his own personality disorder, at least enough to take George's profile and snap it over his knee. He had managed to bottle the rage until it could serve him effectively.

At the hospital, the nurse made George let go of Alex's hand, only allowing Olivia behind the curtain for the sexual assault exam because Olivia was the detective investigating this crime. Alex then endured a long, uncomfortable exam where a perfect stranger looked at – and swabbed for DNA – a place where no one else had ever been allowed to look, while Olivia took pictures of her other injuries for the evidence files. Then came the morning-after pill, and then the general health examination, and finally, they let George stand by her again.

"That wasn't an enjoyable experience," Alex groused, feeling her stress level pushing the edge of her limits. She was trying to hold back tears by acting grumpy. She wasn't going to cry, not yet at least, and not in front of everyone at the hospital.

"I can imagine not," George replied, sensing that condolences might sever what control Alex was attempting to keep over her emotions. He'd remain conversational for her until they were in a place where she would consider it okay to let the dam break. "How are you feeling now?"

"Like shit," she answered in all honesty. Though not usually given towards profanity, Alex felt like a few swear words here and there were more than warranted. "And maybe a little surprised. Adam White is a pedophile, but he still managed…you know…"

"Pedophiles can sometimes still…function…with people that aren't children," George supplied, trying not to slip too far behind the mask of the detached doctor. Alex might prefer that he speak with as little emotion as possible, to help her stay in control, but he cared too much, damn it, and letting all the feeling bleed away from his voice would have felt like something of a betrayal.

Olivia returned, a nearly metallic gleam in her dark eyes, a gleam that promised hell to the man that had put her coworker – and friend – in this position. "We're gonna get this son of a bitch, Alex. You're _sure_ it's White?"

"Yes."

"Then he's going down. For sure this time. There's no way that bastard's getting out of this one."

Olivia stayed just long enough for a little more conversation before she left to file all the paperwork and then arrest White for rape and assault. Alex hailed a nurse for discharge papers after that. As much as people wanted her to stay in the hospital, she couldn't stand staying there if she could walk to leave. Her injuries extended – basically – to deep bruises, but bruises. No bad internal damage, no ribs worse than cracked, and her concussion wasn't of the dangerous variety. She wanted to leave.

"Alex, maybe you should stay for overnight observation," George suggested, supporting most of her weight as she tried to walk.

"I can't stand hospitals," she growled, feeling herself closer to tears than was comfortable. "I _need_ to leave, as soon as I possibly can."

"Then at least stay at my place tonight. I'll take the couch, but I don't think you should be alone in an apartment with a broken window."

Alex agreed to those terms, because, deep down, she didn't think she could handle being alone. The initial terror of White's attack hadn't faded much, and she would probably still be seeing him in dark corners for months at the very least.

It wasn't comfortable to be on this end of Sex Crimes, that was for sure. Alex huddled miserably in the passenger seat of George's car, watching street signs go by, edging grungy streets dimly lit with fading yellow lamps. Bits of debris fluttered in the car-created breeze, and provided a temporary distraction from the disgust that was rearing its ugly head in the back of her mind. She was beginning to understand how rape victims often blamed themselves for their rapes. Rationally she knew that even if she'd fought harder, the same outcome would have occurred, but rationality wasn't a loud voice in her mind.

Vaguely she noticed that the car was no longer moving, and that they had pulled up into the parking lot of an apartment complex. George opened the car door for her, helped her out, shut the door behind her, and then supported her on the walk up to his apartment. The apartment itself, when they managed to get there, was sparsely furnished, the den of a man who was rarely home. A simple black couch adorned the living room, perching lightly on a beige rug over a hardwood floor and accompanied by a matching black floor lamp that proved to be a three-setting type, which George turned to a dim setting.

The psychiatrist and the ADA sat next to one another on the couch, not speaking for a while, but soon, Alex found the silence to be too much to bear alone. She pulled her feet up next to herself on the couch before resting her ear against George's chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. Tentatively he hugged her shoulders, not wanting to press on a bruise.

"I really am sorry this happened to you," George said at last, and that little condolence was all it took for Alex's tension point to snap. She started quietly sobbing into his shirt, finally allowing herself to let go of the tears she'd been holding inside. George gently rubbed her back, encouraging her to get it all out of her system. "Everything's going to be fine," he murmured soothingly. "I'm here, go ahead and cry."

**Author's Other Note: Maybe not the best place to end a chapter, but Heron needed to end it here for some reason. Sorry for the week Heron has been on hiatus, she has been visiting her grandparents in between visits to the doctor for ocular diagnostics. Sorry also for the pain in this chapter. Heron is very fond of Alex Cabot as a character, but Heron also tends to torture the characters she respects. Besides, in case Heron forgot to tag this story under 'Angst/Romance', this ain't supposed to be pretty.**

**And did no one else notice that Heron has been calling Dr. George Huang an FBI forensic _psychologist_? He's actually a psychiatrist. Oops. Sorry about that one too.**

**By the way, this whole story is best read while listening to the Dixie Chicks' 'Easy Silence'. Listen to the song and see if you see what Heron means. And do tell Heron just how much you hate her now for what she did to Alex, and for creating Adam White, and all that. Things will be resolved, but the ending probably won't be happy. Maybe it will be. Who knows? **

**For some reason, 'depth' and 'realism' may not be such a nice thing in this chapter. Heron appreciates any reviews you feel like dropping, no matter what they contain. Bye, for now. goes off to cry over sad chapter**


	3. Building the Tension all over Again

Tension Point

**Author's Note: Heron apologizes for the nastiness that happened last chapter, and also for this probably late update. Heron is writing this newest chapter without internet to speak of, so she hasn't been able to read her reviews, and she may be typing this without a way to post for a while, so, uh, sorry? **

**Suffice to say, Heron loves her reviewers anyway, and things should start getting bad for Adam White. Anyone else hate this guy as much as Heron does?**

Ever since the attack, Alex had become George's roommate of sorts. George got his couch, Alex got the bed, and everything worked out okay.

George was amazed at just how strong Alex Cabot really was. Not many women could be raped, have the stuffing brutally beaten out of them, and then go back to work as soon as they could walk unassisted. He'd profiled rape victims before, and almost none of them could handle life as normal, even years after their attack. The ones who could cope usually couldn't cope soon, and none of them ever went straight back to work when their bruises were still fresh.

But here they were, discussing how best to nail Adam White, the child-rapist that had also gone after Alex. Alex wasn't going to be able to prosecute him, but she knew the case was in good legal hands with Jack McCoy. Currently, Alex was pointing out that White's lawyer was going to say that it was a tragic thing, the attack Alex had survived, but White wasn't the perpetrator. Somehow, Alex's anger at loosing White's other case had made her put Adam's face on her attacker, and she was accusing the wrong man.

Besides, wasn't Adam White supposed to get off on children?

George listened in on the discussion listlessly. He kept silent, though, stewing in his own self-doubt. Guilt and anger threatened to tear him apart from the inside, especially the guilt. The worst trauma for a profiler is to watch someone precious to them be hurt because the profile was flawed. George had to live with the fact that Alex had been attacked because _he_ had been _wrong_.

If George Huang had stopped feeling worthless just long enough to profile himself, he'd have known that he was being irrational. Then again, if he had profiled himself, he'd have probably written the profile off as wrong anyway. He didn't know if he could still do his job. This event had him questioning every profile he'd ever done, every criminal that had ever been caught because he'd been the one to tell the detectives what they were looking for. Were all those guys really innocent?

"Dr. Huang!"

George snapped out of his trance when Olivia Benson snapped her fingers in front of his face, but he didn't have the energy to be startled. He still didn't speak. He just regarded Olivia with hollow eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" Olivia demanded, wondering who this zombie was and where the real Dr. Huang was. She knew he was a quiet man by nature, but even when he was silent, he was always paying attention, and he always had something to say when his opinion was asked for. This…just wasn't him.

Instead of answering, George turned and left the room, probably heading to the roof of the building to dwell on his thoughts without outside interference.

"I'd say the shrink needs to see a shrink," John Munch observed, cocking an eyebrow. "He's out of it."

"He probably thinks it's his fault I was attacked," Alex said, staring sadly at the door George had left through. "I needed advice on how to crack White on the stand, and I took the advice I was given. What neither of us counted on was White putting off blowing up at me until he was a free man."

"That's one miscalculation. White would have come after you anyway," Olivia protested, not believing that the doctor that always told them not to internalize their errors was going against his own words. If White would have attacked Alex anyway, how could Huang see it as his fault the attack had happened?

Then again, if something bad ever happened to Elliot, she'd feel guilty unto jumping off the roof, but Olivia and Elliot were _partners_. What bond was there between the ADA and the forensic psychiatrist other than they both worked together…? Oh, wait, were they…?

Olivia wasn't going to finish that thought, because if she was wrong, it would be just plain rude to jump to false conclusions. People jumped to rude conclusions about her and Elliot all the time, and it got annoying after a while. She had enough respect and courtesy not to inflict her pet peeve on anyone else.

Just then, a messenger pranced nervously into the room, made skittish by the pictures that had been taken of Alex's injuries and the fact that Alex herself was standing in the room, managing to look imposing and graceful in all her black-and-blue glory.

"Uh, e-excuse me?" the messenger squeaked. The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen, his young face still plagued with legions of pimples, his limbs not yet the right size for the rest of his body, making him look like a scarecrow in an olive colored hooded sweater and baggy cargo pants as he held out a yellow envelope. "I was told to deliver th-this to an Al-Alex Cabot or a Doc-doctor Huang?" He was so nervous that even his statements were phrased as questions, as if he was asking the detectives why he was sent to see them.

"I'm Alex Cabot," Alex announced, stepping forward and smoothly relieving the quaking teenager of his yellow burden. His task complete, the kid high-tailed it out of there before anyone could ask him who told him to deliver the envelope, not that he'd know anyway.

Alex opened the envelope, one of those yellow, padded varieties with the bubble wrap on the inside, and emptied the contents into one hand. Inside were two letters, one addressed to her, the other addressed to George, and a packet of pictures fastened with a rubber band.

_Dear Alex, _the note addressed to her read.

_How are you doing? I heard on the grapevine that you weren't feeling so well after our last conversation, hmm? Needless to say, I was less than pleased with the things you said about me in front of all those people, but I knew you were put up to it, and that it would have been stupid to ruin the flawless character my wonderful lawyer created for me. I sent you some pictures of my latest conquests. Most are from my original domain, but, Alex dearest, you have convinced me to broaden my horizons._

_I do so hope that you feel better soon._

_Love, _

_Adam White_

Alex snarled when she read the note, and the detectives around her startled at her feral reaction. She threw down the note and reached for the pictures, tearing the rubber band off so fast that the poor thing snapped. Thumbing through the pictures, Alex discovered that Adam White was back at his old game, only now, he was being violent about raping children. And it wasn't just children anymore. When Adam had written that he'd been convinced to broaden his horizons, he meant that he had also included older women in his victim list.

"Shit," Alex cursed, once again finding the situation appropriate for strong profanity. "Bloody hell, he's at it again." She passed the photos off to Olivia and then ran as fast as her injuries would allow to the nearest restroom to lose the last meal she'd eaten.

After she finished cleaning herself up, Alex went up to the roof to talk to George. She debated with herself over whether or not to hand him his letter. Finally, she decided to tell him that it was there for when he felt up to reading it.

"I'm sorry," George told her when he sensed her presence behind him. He didn't turn around. "This, this is all my fault. If I hadn't…"

"Shut up," Alex interrupted bluntly. "I didn't come up here to hear you beat yourself up. Adam White is an asshole, and that's his fault, not yours. Apparently, I'm the one who convinced him to broaden his horizons."

"What?" Now George turned around, alarm replacing his earlier apathy.

"He even sent us pictures, and letters. He's getting violent with the little girls, and he's moving on to older targets."

**Author's Other Note: Whoa, Heron is so sorry about being gone for so long, especially in such a sucky place to stop, but her internet was down for so long… Also she is sorry about the shortness of the chapter, but Heron thought she should get _something_ up after making all y'all wait for so long. And don't worry, Adam White will suffer later, but we can't rush the story now, can we? **

**And to Heron's reviewers:**

**Thank you one and all! So you don't hate Heron? Heron loves you all. Free hugs everywhere! **

**Next update should be sooner than this one came up, but Heron's internet likes being bratty and not letting Heron do anything. (insert nasty snarling noises here)**

**Later!**


	4. The Other String Falls to Pieces

Tension Point

**Author's Note: Okay, it's not just Heron's internet that's being Axis-Two, Cluster-B, borderline histrionic personality-disordered… Heron's computer has been refusing to save Tension Point's latest chapter, so Heron couldn't even start typing it for a while. AAAARGH! Okay, now that that's all cleared up… Heron loves her reviewers. You've all been so kind, even forgiving Heron her long absence. Thank you so much! Anyway, Heron shall now see if she hasn't lost her edge…on with the insanity!**

The stationhouse walls had been taking more beatings than usual from Elliot Stabler. The man kept imagining his own children in the hands of Adam White, the images haunting his dreams and his every waking moment alike without discretion. Olivia tried to help him through it, but she couldn't keep a very objective opinion either. Adam White was a rapist, just like her own father, and she kept envisioning the horror of the future when a child or two found out the hard way that they were never supposed to happen, like she did.

But George Huang was not in the stationhouse with Elliot and Olivia and the other detectives that night. They had seen how tired he looked, how drained, and they had sent him 'home'. Instead, he was at the weary little all-night diner, where the weary waitress took weary orders from weary customers, clicking away on her weary pumps to attain the weary orders from weary cooks. He wasn't at all sure what he himself had ordered, except that the waitress had called it the 'House Special', and that it consisted of lots of cheese, grease, and what was possibly pasta along with several other unidentifiable items.

Even the tables looked weary, tired, and depressed at the outcome of the week. George was so caught up in nothing that he failed to notice the oddly energetic sound of two-inch heels clacking against the tired linoleum floors of the diner.

"You're not going to be any good to anyone if you don't stop beating yourself up long enough to rest, you know," a musical female voice told him, and he startled, having been unaware of his surroundings. Wasn't he supposed to be FBI?

"Hello, Alex," he mumbled, returning to his task of rearranging his food with his fork, but not eating any of it. "Have a seat?"

Alex Cabot took a seat across the table from George, reigning in the urge to kick him in the shins just to get a reaction out of him that wasn't self-deprecating, depressed, or apathetic. Hell, even anger would be a good reaction, because it would be _something_.

The waitress eyed a new customer, and stopped by to get Alex's order, returning in record time with the watered down coffee that had been the lawyer's request. Alex took a sip of her lukewarm drink after the waitress clicked away, and cringed. At this hour, nowhere had good coffee, but this… If the stuff at the stationhouse was battery acid, this was water with a coffee stain on it.

"Let's go," Alex said finally after she had choked down two mugs of coffee-tinted water in silence. She didn't mind the silence so much. It was an easy silence, a peaceful kind of quiet. George had that effect for her, even when they weren't talking. The world just seemed to disappear when she was around him and all the icky stuff didn't really matter. Usually, but this…this was when he needed the support more than she did. The detectives in Sex Crimes used his mind and his skill shamelessly, and they often took him for granted, but what was worse than that was they forgot that he was, under the FBI shield and all the credentials, still human.

She paid for both her coffees and his uneaten meal, and almost dragged him out of the diner. This was almost like a repeat of their first personal encounter, when he'd bought her a meal at that same said diner, but that time, things had been happy between them. Now, there was a rift of guilt, and shame, and she wanted that to go away. Even if she and George turned out to be nothing more than friends, she wanted them to be friends without regrets coming between them. There was one place she knew of where maybe, just maybe, she could patch the rift before it stopped being a crack and started being a yawning chasm.

Alex ushered George into the passenger seat of her car, and then climbed into the driver's seat, put her key in the ignition, and started the engine. Slowly she pulled out of the parking lot, and she obeyed the speed limit the whole silent way to her destination. Of all the things she'd been called over the years, stupid driver was not one of them.

George was dimly aware of the car slowing to a stop and the shrill screech of squealer tabs that warned that Alex would need new brakes sometime in the near future, but it didn't register to him that he needed to get out of the car until the door he was leaning on suddenly opened and all that kept him from falling out was the seatbelt.

When he finally managed to unbuckle and step out of the car, he noted that Alex had taken them to the park where she'd first taken them after he'd treated her to that greasy meal that hung somewhere in between dinner and breakfast on the timetable. It was the park where all the trouble in the world could be temporarily forgotten, and he could leave the stains on his soul at the door for a while and just exist, like a clean slate. It was their unspoken fantasy world where Adam White didn't exist, and evil didn't exist. Here, in this fantasy, children were not exploited or used for sex, people were not raped, spouses did not beat each other, and every story had a happy ending.

He found himself being led to the very same bench where they had sat together a seeming eternity ago – he'd lost track of time. It was colder now, edging into late October and early November, and George found himself edging slightly closer to Alex for warmth.

"So, feel like talking yet?" Alex queried, slipping an arm around her companion's shoulders. They basically lived together now – her apartment still held too many nightmares – but she felt like she didn't know him anymore.

There is a marked difference between not moving and being still. Before all the bad things with Adam White had gone down, George could be not moving but still be almost vibrating with contained energy. He always had an eager sparkle in his eyes, an air of barely contained excitement, like a dog really, when he was helping the detectives track down yet another scumbag. He could not move and still strain at the leash to get free. Now though, now he was still, all that compressed energy gone from his emotionally tattered form. His motions were flat, dull, and his eyes were emptier than Alex had ever seen them, that sparkle gone, hopefully not for good.

Alex sighed heavily when she received no answer. Looking out at the cityscape that substituted for stars, she pressed on. "I don't blame you. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. If I had gotten on the phone fast enough or gotten out of my apartment, well, I won't even go there, because that's about as rational as the guilt you're putting yourself through. White decided on expanding his pool of potential victims long before you and I had that chat in the diner about how best to crucify him on the stand."

"But…"

"Don't go there," Alex interrupted. It figured that when she finally got the man to talk, he would try to snatch all the blame back and hoard it for himself. "Let it go, or you'll be even more Adam White's victim than me. Take a deep breath, suck it up, and move on."

George still didn't look convinced that he wasn't the one to blame. Alex dearly didn't want to get angry with him, but he was so stubbornly hanging onto his guilt like a child with a favorite toy, or, back to that canine analogy, like a dog with a bone.

Tears welled up in his eyes. Even grown men needed to cry every now and then, especially when that tension point was pushed as far as this. Alex was amazed that George had held together as long as he did, being pushed from one catastrophe to the next with no outlet, and then discovering her broken body after White had finished with her, and now trying to track down the slippery bastard…

Alex leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and then just held him for a while. Sometimes, it was actions that mattered, and not words.

**Author's Other Note: Again, sorry for the long wait. And the short chapters. And possibly the angst. When Heron started writing this, she planned on light angst, but her reviewers said continue and then the plot bunny took over…**

**Please tell Heron when you want her to stop, because otherwise this fic could get to be one of those epic ones, and Heron isn't happy with her writing right now. This chapter came out okay, but it doesn't hold a candle to the first chapter, and the others don't even come close to this one. **

**Heron is updating as fast as she can, given her health and her computer's mental health… Sorry if she's making you wait for too long in between updates. **

**Once again, this whole story is best read while listening to the Dixie Chicks' 'Easy Silence' on loop track. Heron bought the new CD after she wrote the first chapter, and found that the first chapter was quite elegantly put to music with 'Easy Silence'. Heron doesn't care for the Dixie Chicks' politics, but their music can be pretty damn good.**


	5. Contemplations: A Reprieve

Tension Point

**Author's Note: Hello again, everybody! Wow, is it really the fifth chapter already? Time flies when one is writing angst, that's for sure. Heron is surprised that so many of you are still reading this fiction. She commemorates your loyalty, and, to those of you just coming into the story, if you've made it this far, welcome to the family! **

**Honestly, Heron is disappointed in herself. She can't seem to connect the chapters in any semblance of sense, so, uh, sorry? Anyway, maybe, just maybe, the angst will lighten up this chapter, and Heron might even manage to slip in some humor, maybe… Most people are smart enough to write their author's notes when they've either finished the chapter or known what they were going to do, but Heron…not that smart. The notes at the bottom are written after the chapter but these here at the top…Heron is clueless. Anywho, thank you all for staying along for the ride so far. Heron has no idea just how much longer this is gonna last, but for those of you who are sticking it out, FREE HUGS!!! On with the insanity!**

Rain lashed the window behind him as he sat at his desk. His desk specifically, not the one he borrowed at the SVU stationhouse. Here, in the FBI branch office that was exclusively his, the clocks were dead on and not three hours behind, and the nearly sterile environment didn't bring up any nasty memories.

Dr. Huang swiveled in his office chair, away from his desk to face the cold, impersonal city rain that was probably acid what with the air pollution. Here, away from the Adam White case, was a much needed vacation. Here, even though he wasn't technically supposed to be in his office, he could immerse himself in thoughts and memories from before Adam White became a shadow behind every corner and the boogey man that hid under his bed and terrified his dreams at night, or whenever he happened to sleep.

* * *

_It was a particularly difficult case, and for the first time in their respective careers, he and Alex Cabot were fighting over what was right about it. A young boy had taken a gun to his school and shot two of his classmates to death, after fantasizing about doing so for a while, but he never would have acted on those fantasies had his mother not given him antidepressants that had had the side-effect of psychosis. _

_Alex, the warrior of justice, wanted, needed, to prosecute to the fullest extent the murderer of two young boys. George, advocate of the forgotten, wanted, needed, to get help for the poor boy whose mind had been torn to shreds by the chemicals in the medication his mother had given him._

_George was the only one capable of keeping an even temper. Though, he didn't have the right to lose his temper, he guessed, not after agreeing to testify for the defense. When Alex found out, she was livid. She shouted and yelled and snarled, getting so in his face he almost swore she was going to bite him right on the nose. He didn't back down, though. Alex intimidated him then, but he didn't show it. Helping someone who needed mental help was more important that appeasing a friend. _

_After a staring contest, not brief, as his eyes had nearly watered from the effort of not blinking, Alex stormed away. Several of her coworkers in the law office saw fit to complain of "Hurricane Alex" blowing through, and were careful to stay out of her way. _

_Later, Alex came into his office, his FBI office, and gingerly closed the door behind her, as if feeling slightly guilty and remorseful about her earlier homicidal ideations. "I need some advice," she mumbled, barely able to make eye contact._

"_Well, lay down on the couch over there and tell me all about it," he offered, eyes twinkling with humor._

"_Not that kind of advice," she admonished, mock-glaring at him. "I just, well, what's justice?" She went on to ask what she should do, prosecute the killer, or defend the drug-induced psychotic? How the hell did she get any semblance of justice out of this tangled mess?! _

"_Get the boy help," George advised gently. "And then go after whoever put those drugs in his hands. That's justice."_

_Following up on that, Alex hung the drug company in the courtroom. It turned out that they had sent free samples via drug rep. to the doorsteps, not mailboxes, doorsteps, of former clients, and since the killer's mother had taken the meds before and they had worked for her, she tried giving some to her son, and that was when all hell broke loose and now two innocent boys were dead, a third scarred for life. _

_And George Huang tried to never piss off Alex Cabot ever again, because she was scary when she was angry._

* * *

That was ever a fond recollection, despite the fact that he had honestly thought Alex was going to hurt him for siding with the defense, and, in effect, against her. Despite his fear, it was a memory before the time of Adam White, and a memory of Alex in her relentless pursuit of justice. She was strong now, but that had been an untainted memory of her strength and her sheer force of will. She didn't have to tangle with a rapist to prove herself then.

For some time, George Huang had been realizing that many of his thoughts now centered on Alex Cabot. He'd be walking in the city, pass a café, and wonder if Alex would like the coffee there, and other things like that. Mundane little instances, for sure, but the woman was never far from his mind, if she ever left at all. For his part, though, he was starting to feel more like his old self, but again and then, it was all her fault, not that that was a bad thing…oh, where the hell did he stand?! Some irrational part of his head still wanted, needed, to blame himself for mis-profiling White, but another voice in his thoughts, one that sounded suspiciously like Alex, told him he was being an idiot.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his office chair – tall-backed, black leather, exceedingly uncomfortable unless slouched in – and sighed, his thoughts running unbidden back to that one special night, before Adam White had gotten out of jail free, the first night in the park with Alex. The weight of her head resting on his shoulder as they sat together on the bench had been comfortable, natural. And then, when she had driven him home, she'd kissed him on the cheek before he'd gotten out of the car. He remembered the feeling well, and often found his thoughts drifting back to that moment specifically.

Why? Maybe he was falling for the ADA, then again, maybe he was just lonely. George found it amazing that he could psychoanalyze other people so easily, and yet his own mind, which he should by all rights know the best, was a complete mystery to him.

George let his mind wander to when he had first met Detective Stabler. Subconsciously he rubbed at the back of his head. The scar was still there, a constant reminder that in his profession, complacency oft meant death, or something like it.

* * *

_They had shaken hands over Dr. Huang's desk, Elliot Stabler poorly hiding his frustration, resentment, and hostility. Not only was this Huang character taking the place of Elliot's favorite consulting shrink, he was a fed, he was alpha male no matter what Stabler tried to do and say to throw him off balance, he was a know-it-all, and there was no air of humanity within the psychiatrist. Professionalism and mechanical greetings coated a mechanical mind that, like a computer, could work out the formulae of the human mind in mere seconds and make the mere mortals, Stabler that is, look and feel inadequate in the intellectual department._

_The two men had but one thing in common. They needed to interview a serial murderer who was on death row and set to be executed in less than seventy two hours. Between their efforts, and a few (dozens) strings pulled by Alex Cabot, they managed to get that interview._

_The personality disorder of the inmate showed itself immediately, he couldn't help but try and shrink the shrink and the detective, get in their heads, make them tick. Stabler performed admirably, even joining the 'I hate psychiatrists' club the inmate had unofficially started._

"_You're not liked. How does that make you feel?" the inmate had asked mockingly, and George Huang, instead of getting offended, let a look of thoughtfulness cross his face._

"_Insightful," he had replied, to the great amusements of the inmate and Stabler both._

_Time passed in a nearly worthless interview, and then Huang had called for the guards to let him and Stabler out of the cell._

"_Oh, don't worry, the guards are changing shifts. They won't help you for at least another two minutes," the inmate had informed, and suddenly, and for the first time that interview, Huang had felt a stab of fear._

"_Elliot, get away from the table!" he cried, and within the second, the inmate had upended the table and nearly pinned Stabler to the wall with it. The next thing George Huang remembered, the inmates hands collided violently with his throat, slamming him into the wall. He was less than conscious as he slid down the wall, his head leaving a blood trail on the way down. The inmate was now occupied fighting a guy his own size, and George couldn't remember anything until he awoke in the hospital with the worst migraine he'd ever had._

* * *

George frowned. It was one of the first mistakes of his career, and it had hurt like hell. After Stabler had visited him in the hospital (just to say 'I told you so', not for any sentimental reasons) he hoped he'd learned a little humility. It had been fun, being alpha dog for a while, but look at the consequences. But that wasn't a missed profile. He just hadn't noticed the inmate, whom he refused to put a name to, asking about the time so that he could gauge the change in guard shift. Adam White, well, Adam wouldn't be as smart as he liked others to think, but he was damn savvy, and he would do what it took to mess with anyone chasing him down. Just about anyone could purchase a copy of the DSM series, read about personality disorders…White could simply read about himself and tweak his personal details to confound those that sought to apprehend, or better yet kill, him. To change a personality disorder simply took pure determination, and that, White had aplenty.

A knock at the office door brought George back from his contemplation, and he turned his chair back around to face the door instead of the window. "It's not locked," he called, and the door opened to reveal one Olivia Benson.

"Thought I might find you here," she said, closing the door after herself and taking a seat across from George, leaning on her elbows against the desk. "I thought that, after all this crap, you might need someone to talk to. God knows you've listened to me enough."

George allowed the smallest, slightest smile. Olivia was not just a coworker, he considered her to be a very dear friend. Chalk another reason Stabler hated him, but George knew that of the few people he had that he could talk to, Olivia would always be honest with him. He knew he was perhaps the only person besides Cragen that had ever seen Olivia cry, and there was a certain trust in that, a special sort of bond that had nothing to do with work or romance. It was friendship, and he valued it.

"I'll always listen, Olivia," he replied. "Especially to my friends. What did you want to talk about?"

"Actually, I was going to ask you the same question," Olivia told him, with 'that look' in her eyes, the one that was famous around the stationhouse. Olivia was like a pit bull, in that once she got her teeth into something, she just didn't let go. It made her a great cop, and a difficult person to hide things from.

**Author's Note: Damn! Sorry about the wait…how long was it? Way too long, anyway. If Heron doesn't update in long bouts of time, it's either due to dysfunctional health or a broken computer. Neither of which is really an excuse, sorry. By the way, Heron also doesn't have email anymore, so she'll be able to reply to reviews but not to private messages. Heron also apologizes for the friggin' short chapter, but Heron wanted to throw something out to make up for the months-long deficit. (Cries pitifully). Heron is sooooooo sorry!!!!!!!! Heron loves you all! Can you forgive Heron? Please? (Large, teary, animated eyes, trembling lip, the whole nine yards) Free Hugs! (nudge, wink)**


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